Yes, Mistress [MK.2]

In the amber glow of my salt-lamp, in those mellow hours of the morning, on a mattress rather than in a bed, I seek to identify the true quest of the day, if it differs to any of the others this week. While my stomach aches like a hungry prisoner I, only with traditional indifference, tinker with my testicles like a sculptor moulds his clay, stretching the flesh and reminding that intimate area that at least one hand can summon the strength to entertain it. Some deplorable pigeon coos, the jackdaws murmur, cars pass, nothing erects. Today is the first real allusion to winter, for these ultra soft breezes that sneak through my open window and stroke my exposed skin come with a definitive coolness, a cold message from the cold future, for Winter says, today: “I am on my way." This morning my leaping off the mattress, my lust for a shower, my want for apparel has been delayed. Instead, I listen like a dopey kid to the quiet and crisp whispers which allure to a frosty fate, and play with the hairy play-dough that dangles between my legs.

Any serenity or appreciation involved was melted away by the hot piercing wails of a passing ambulance. It is time to wash.

After a thoughtful shower I treat my recently bleached hair with a mix of nourishing oils. Argon, coconut, and keratin. Although I’ve often turned my luscious chocolatey locks to frail and coarse strands the colour of a ripe banana, I’ve never actually regretted it. There must be something to this ritual. Is there something embroidered in the fabric of my identity I long to change but can’t, and so only suffice with a stark shift of hair colour? Or do I just want to be blonde? I’ll be damned if I know - both!

Speaking of rituals I’ve just finished another one of mine. A blunt is rolled and ready, awaiting the tickle of scorching heat that will open up a world of fumes — sweet sinsemilla fumes packed with a goodness quite godly, and forever marvellous to a smoker or non, incontrovertibly.

More words should mean better explanation, but in fact often result in refined evasion. I speak such because I feel such even in my own writings. There really can be some colourful ways to omit, some impressive dances that twirl around truth, some fantastic lies. However, grandiloquence doesn’t seem like the most apt route to truth, even if it has some merit. Yet how can a Proust-loving pauper on the precipice of potential fame and prominence not become so prolix and flamboyant in his literary efforts to unveil with words a sense of personal definition, an operable identity? Perhaps that’s what I need: all the combinations of sentences soaked in keen subtly and frank story, because the truth is usually simple, and if I know in my heart of hearts that I could delineate the truth I’m seeking in a fair few pages, or even less, I’d be unsurprised if some mechanism inside me activated to build the most extravagant perimeter around that simplicity, comprised of circuitous clauses with no elemental decency, rather just pretty speculations and dandified paragraphs, rosey and complex, and seeming, superficially, splendid: for I am an artist.

There are things I want to write because they are the truth, but some are things of pain and reality, hence my tense circumspect to express them. Saying it means it’s real, right? It gives the statement some substance once it’s been uttered. That thing goes from being a notion, or a creature, inside your head, to being something pushed into reality, now sonically perceptible, and perceivable by the mind in a fresh way.

There are also some truths which I relish in knowing with adamancy. For example, the fact that I know I’m here to make more art than sense.

Two crows scant beneath the conker tree, the leaves of which are crispy and lifeless. The sky looks close to lifeless too, as though today it is simply a layer between us and the sun, a coat of protection dearth of any beauty, existing for mere function. Engines moan from the nearby road, the trees jiggle ever so slightly and the birds fly laboriously in a breezeless atmosphere. The sun itself blinds me to look at, (believe it or not) and today seems, like the sky, to be operating devoid of anything aesthetically worthy, and appears to sadly be, even it its peaking beams, just a sharp, inexhaustible stream of potent white light, ingratiating. My tea has long been finished and my belly has long been knocking on the door of my attention.

My hair bleached is a cheap and provocative jab, non-verbal, brash, intended. It’s a compensatory f*** you, for all the one’s I didn’t say over the last several months. And once my hair turns mostly natural again, the “f*** you”s that have been clogging up will once again get their manumission when I scotch my poor scalp with peroxide. So many judgments of one creates in one the apprehension of judgement, or exacerbates that innate apprehension. (We haven’t learnt to give a f***, for it would have been wise and fruitful to manoeuvre in your tribe — long ago — conscious of the others’ perception of you, for the sake of your survival!) Seconds prior to a moment of commendable expression the recollection of past ridicule and scrutiny can inhibit the expression. It’s an ancient and useful social tool, and in modernity its utility is fading, for it can be, especially for the artist, a nightmare. To avoid authenticity for fear of the tribe is to me a kind of cultural disease. To avoid truth for fear of judgment is the same.

I’ve explored some territories of the darker nature to a notably deep level. More specifically the sexual areas, the sadistic, kinky corners of the mind, where most people dip their feet into during the spell of their spiciest tryst. I consciously stepped into the waters, and swam.

I could begin with anal activities all in the name of curiosity and some attractive online mistress, or explain my unrelenting lust that revolved so fervently around the concept of female power. I still love it, and I get it! Girl power, the feminine spirit, Mother Nature, Chaos and her son: I love it. And my behaviours and sexual performances were, in the deepest sense, acts of worship to that feminine force that has struck me in some profound manner in my life — all my life, obviously. From the ground up I would build in my head such grand fantasies which, because of the online element of interface with another person, namely a female I found alluding, attractive or intellectual, I could play with and engage in so immensely. These fantasies grew into micro-realities, hidden from everyone but whomever I happened to be having relations with at that time. The comical thing is I never met any of them. I would have surely liked to, and definitely requested to, but you don’t get those kind of rights if you’re a recently committed submissive to a very dominant woman, as I should know all about - such should be earnt.

Many a nights were spent — well, enough, that’s for sure — high on cocaine with a psyche in full acceleration, building the imaginative jigsaw pieces of my fantasy, my fantasy of being controlled, used, owned, dominated by a women in whom I discerned a power. Many nights and days too I spent simply hooked into my game, sober too, arguably; my game of surrendering specific rights, like the choice to touch myself when it pleased me, for example, to one female of specified authority. Furthermore there were tasks set in order to show I was willing to serve, that I should serve more so than any other of the hundreds of perverts desperate for this woman to tell them when and how they should facilitate an orgasm, or how they should penetrate their anus with something dildo-like in an erotic and ritualistic, reverential dance of deep and kinked dramatics. I suppose where the shame arises is in the realisation of how truly thrilling such a prospect was: to have a relationship where I am owned by a Mistress, denied orgasms, bound and teased, under contact and committed to the pleasure and desires of one women, totally.

I like my solitude, but being alone and being curious is no peachy promenade. One is bound to stumble upon the more jagged facets of oneself, with enough wandering and legitimate openness. So I served a bunch of bold women, all wonderfully fierce and perfectly hard to please; I employed much imploring with a literary twist and sought out very sought-after Mistresses. To my glee I served some women of genuine classiness and prettiness that did enrapture me, for it was essential that I felt some real attraction towards them. I myself am interested in the ferocity of my definite love for that predilection for female control.

For a period of time when I was engaged with a women in this manner, I was within a world of maudlin colours and lonliness. Of course, in a state of depression, one must be inside begging for a sense of structure; those relationships gave me a structure, a rather heterodox one, a perverted one, dark, but, nonetheless, my lust drove me sexually and I had something to grasp psychologically, a pretty undeniable something to grasp when the reality relied on intense discipline and a realm of sensations accessible only when you are close enough to where they exist, as if they are the cities you can go to only in the country which you are already in. There was an aspect of dependency on the woman to whom I gave control over me, in conjunction with my natural inclinations to be “controlled.”

From another aligning perspective I am an artist, which means fundamentally that I reside on the outskirts of culture — which is Nature’s opposite, the Father. In a metaphysical sense I’m close to the female spirit, to Chaos. In a temperamental sense I am too, I am a creative neurotic, a liberal, individualistic creator, a deviator. In the manneristic sense, I can be quite effeminate too, and have so explored my effeminacy with profundity. So, at a deeper level of analysis, my “twisted” behaviour isn’t really messed up at all, nor is anybody else’s — but there does exist thresholds that breach ethicality and morality within domains of sexual exploration, I think we can all agree on that.

But I let my kinks run wild, and there was fun, there was darkness, there was certainly separation from the jejune. Sometimes that’s all we are really clamouring for; vague and sutble prayers for something elating, maybe even strange. That is perhaps some of what comprises my inclinations: that yearning for intensity, for thrill, and drama. My tendencies are not solely formed by a biological system; I am informed and, more so, of course, now, have an accurate interpretation drawn from many many days of questioning. But my days of shame are diminishing. There’s not many things I’m absolutely sure of, but the fact that I’m a complex, mad monkey on a planet with seven billion others is one of the things of which I am. I wonder, really, if my celebrity status were achieved what words would come from whose mouth when some video of me has leaked, or some several photos exhibiting so starkly my “interests” are shared around the globe. Albeit I do maintain there’s no such thing as bad publicity, not when you want people to know your name. So I’m a feral, perverted and playful monkey in the chambers, and I can be a primate of passion, drowning a poor lady in a wicked, torrid lake of my love. I can discern enough of the facets to my dark jewel of sadomasochism without having an uninformed judgment, or several, or millions, having a crushing effect to my ego, or my persona!

A rain falls how I like the rain to fall. And what can I say to give just and true conveyance about this phenomena, this inclement outcast, this wet, perfect friend of mine? The rain is more than a friend of mine, it is a part of me. I should have liked to have spared you of any superfluous pomposity but I really must dally out into my garden to inhale the earthy, perfume of purity that rises at the explosion of every drop of the gorgeous water that is falling presently and so fascinatingly!